


And The Night Mare Rides On

by Dracothelizard



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Dreams, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Sex Nightmares, Sleeplessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 14:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracothelizard/pseuds/Dracothelizard
Summary: Written for the HHanon kinkmeme back in 2011.Prompt:  Charles II/Oliver Cromwell, dreamsAfter his father's execution, Charles keeps having dreams where Cromwell captures him and does things to him - horrible, terrifying, amazing, wonderful things.(So all the Charles II/Cromwell stuff happens in the dreams, and gets pretty dubcon/noncon.)





	And The Night Mare Rides On

The dreams don't start until a few months after he gets his throne back. Before that, his sleep has been devoid of dreams, too tired from everything he has to do during the day. Being a King was bloody hard work, especially in a country that has been lacking one for so long.   
  
Sotherby, bless the man, helps, but that still leaves plenty for Charles.  
  
And so, the first few months go by with Charles greeting his bed happily, taking a few seconds to get comfortable underneath luxurious sheets before falling asleep.  
  
That changes with the dreams.  
  
At first, they're vague. He dreams of being restrained, of his hands being shackled together, or of having rope tied around his chest, making it harder to breathe.   
  
He tells Sotherby about them, when he asks Charles how he slept, and Sotherby mutters something about Charles probably feeling restrained by his duties as a King, and has he looked at today's planning yet?  
  
That may be it, because Charles _is_ feeling the restraints of proper regal life, but then this is what he was born and raised to do. It doesn't make sense.   
  
The dreams continue like that, of feeling tied down in total darkness, and Charles starts to dread falling asleep. It feels too much like being imprisoned, and he doesn't like it one bit.   
  
Everyone has different advice to give, from not eating cheese any more to praying to the Archangel Raphael, who can protect him from the nightmares, but none of it helps.   
  
It gets worse. There're whispers in the dreams now, words that Charles can't quite make out and he doesn't want to either. And then there's the hands. He thinks it's only two, but it's hard to be sure. They touch him, and no matter how much Charles struggles, he can't move or get away from them because he's still _tied down_ and there's a tight band around his chest and the hands are moving over it, taunting him. He wakes up from the nightmares more than once, all alone in his big bed, but gloriously _free_.  
  
Sotherby looks surprised the first time Charles sends for him at the early hours of the morning. "Sire?" he asks, still yawning as the servant bows and leaves.  
  
"Ah, Sothers!" Charles tells him. "I thought we could start nice and early today." He feels as tired as Sotherby looks, but he can't let that stop him. If he goes back to sleep, the dreams'll be back. "Isn't that what you always say?"  
  
"Not this." Sotherby yawns again. "This early, Sire."   
  
Charles smiles at him. "How about I send someone to fetch us coffee and toasted bread?"   
  
Sotherby looks at him like he's just singlehandedly saved the world. "Oh, _please_ , your Majesty."

*

This happens more often, and Sotherby eventually gets used to his King being awake early and wanting to get started on royal business. Sotherby, once he has some coffee in him, even says he approves of it.   
  
It's starting to wear on Charles. The dreams mean he rarely gets a proper rest, because it's not until he's utterly exhausted and thinks he can't take it anymore that he gets a night of blissful dreamless sleep.   
  
That gives him an idea, and from that moment he spends a lot more time walking in the gardens, preferably at a brisk pace. Sotherby frowns at him when they meet there, asking why.  
  
"Because these gardens are lovely, and I want to appreciate them," Charles tells him. "And - and, well, we all know what happened to Henry VIII, don't we? I don't want to end up like him."   
  
Sotherby smiles at that. "You don't eat nearly enough for that." He eyes Charles. "In fact, Sire, about your appetite..."   
  
Charles is still testing out the theory that the food is giving him the nightmares. "What about it?"  
  
"You haven't been eating that much lately," Sotherby says, looking worried. "You barely touch the toasted bread in the morning, and you practically seem to live off coffee."   
  
Charles just shrugs. "I've been very busy." He has to keep busy to be exhausted.   
  
"Sire, if there's anything I can do for you, you only have to ask," Sotherby tells him. "That's what we're here for."   
  
"I know, Sothers. I know. Now, which ambassador is visiting us this afternoon?"  
  
*  
  
The dreams somehow manage to work their way through the exhaustion. Their absence has made them stronger, and for the first time Charles can _see_ and he immediately wishes he couldn't.   
  
He's in a dungeon, and he's tied to a chair, and the hands that have been roaming over his body belong to none other than Oliver Cromwell, who smirks down at him. "Mine at last, Charles," he whispers.  
  
Charles wakes up screaming that night.   
  
When a servant runs in to ask if anything's wrong, Charles is huddled up against the head of his bed, clutching his sheets. "I'm fine," he says eventually. He has to be regal and in control. "Just - just a bad dream."   
  
The servant bows. "Do you need me to get you anything, Sire?"   
  
"Sotherby," Charles replies, his heart still hammering in his chest. He needs companionship from someone who doesn't mind being up at this time of the night. "Get Sotherby."

The servant runs off, and Sotherby arrives swiftly, a gown thrown over his white nightshirt, and Charles has to smile. "Your Majesty. Is something wrong?"   
  
Charles has already got out of bed. "Nothing." He smiles at Sotherby, happy to see him. "Our usual coffee and toasted bread?"   
  
Sotherby narrows his eyes at Charles. "Something is wrong," he says. "The servant said - said something about a bad dream."   
  
"Did I?" Charles replies, suppressing the memories of Cromwell's smirk and hoping he sounds casual enough. "He must've misunderstood. I'm fine."  
  
"Are you sure, Sire?" Sotherby asks. "Because if you are, I'd like permission to get dressed before we get started."   
  
Charles nods. "Very well. I'll see you soon." He lights another candle. Much better to have some light in here.   
  
*  
  
Cromwell doesn't leave. He turns up, dream after dream, and he keeps telling Charles how he'll punish him for everything he's done. "So very sinful," Oliver whispers. His dark eyes are staring in Charles' own with hate and determination, and Cromwell's hands keep _touching_ Charles everywhere. No place is safe.  
  
Not even the most private one.   
  
And damn Cromwell to the hell he came from, because despite himself Charles actually likes it.   
  
"Look at you," Cromwell sneers, standing over him while one hand is pressing against his breeches. "Desperate, aren't you?"   
  
Charles tries to move against the hand, but his chest is tied to the chair with some broad leather band, and he can't move his arms and legs either. "Cromwell," he says, and he's aiming for threatening, he is, _he is_ , but it comes out as wanton instead.  
  
Cromwell just glares at him again. "Call yourself a king?" he spits, his hand moving against his hardening prick. "You're ruled by your desires like the lowest of men." He leans closer to Charles. "You are nothing but scum."  
  
Charles wakes up with a gasp, and he stares at the panel over his four poster bed for a moment, trying to comprehend what has happened. He's also trying to ignore the demands from his prick, which is stiff and hard and clearly does not understand the meaning of the word 'nightmare'.   
  
He's had _those_ kinds of dream before, with lovely girls pleasuring him in unspeakable ways, but never anything like what he just woke up from. Normally, he would call in a servant to fetch Sotherby, but he can't. Not in his current condition.

*

And so he waits in the darkness for it to fade. He's not above helping himself, so to speak, but he really doesn't want to now.

Charles sits on his most comfortable chair in his bedroom for at least half an hour before he dares to go to bed. It's like approaching a wild animal, and Charles is never sure when it'll attack. Even now there're nights where he doesn't dream at all, and he _lives_ for those rare nights of peace.   
  
He hopes tonight is one of those nights, because it's been nothing but Cromwell whispering at him for the past five. Or six. Maybe even seven. It's hard to keep track sometimes. He pulls the blankets out of the way, and settles in. It's hard to keep track of anything, and he's glad Sotherby is always nearby to quickly tell him which noble he's talking to, or to suggest he sit down when Charles almost starts to sway on his feet.   
  
Closing his eyes, he prays to Raphael for a good night's sleep.  
  
He doesn't get it.  
  
*  
  
Instead of a chair, he's been tied to some sort of table now, hands above his head. His feet are tied down too, and he can feel the tight leather band over his chest. It's _almost_ normal now, but it's not something he'll ever get used to. He's too scared, it's all too real and Cromwell is right there.   
  
He knows Cromwell's dead, he's reminded himself often enough of it during the dream, but it never helps. Cromwell just shrugs, smirks, and reminds Charles of what a sorry creature he is. "How do you expect to be a proper king?" Cromwell asks, walking slowly around the table. One hand is always touching him, trailing over his arm down to his side, travelling over his hip and his legs before moving up again. "You are unfit to even rule a household, let alone a _country_.  
  
"Not true," Charles mutters, trying to ignore the constant touch "That's not true."   
  
Cromwell laughs. He's by Charles' side again, and his hands are drifting towards his groin. "Come now, your Majesty," he says mockingly. "Be honest. Just this once."   
  
Charles tries to pull back but he can't move and Cromwell's hand is moving slowly but surely across his groin, and he can feel himself grow hard. "No," he moans.   
  
"You're a terrible king," Cromwell hisses. He leans over Charles, pressing his hand down firmly and squeezing just a little. "You'll bring nothing but doom to this country."   
  
He can feel Cromwell's breath on his face, he can actually _feel_ it. "Please," he says, and he's not even sure what he's begging for.   
  
Cromwell smirks. "Pathetic." He keeps massaging Charles' prick, until Charles has no choice but to come.  
  
He wakes up like that, panting and his heart beating wildly. A brief inspection of the sheets reveals a sticky mess. Groaning into his pillow for a brief moment, he then scoots a few feet to one side. Clearly, he's going mad.

*

His days seem... emptier somehow. Charles isn't sure why. He's still very busy with his regal duties, but there seem to be less people involved. The courtroom used to be bustling with activity, with people talking amongst themselves while Charles listened to ambassadors and nobles and important people, and more than once he has ordered them to be silent in his presence. But he's never asked them to leave. He wonders why they have.  
  
He asks Sotherby about it once, when there's a brief moment between one ambassador and the next.  
  
Sotherby looks at him, and there's an odd expression on his face. It looks almost like pity, but it's mixed with something Charles can't quite put a name to. "Your Majesty," he says, a little pained. "People thought it best to - to give you some peace and quiet when you deal with these matters."  
  
He keeps staring at Sotherby, still trying to figure out that expression. "Sothers," he says, and reaches out a hand to trace a finger over the other man's cheek. Then he giggles at Sotherby's change of expression. "You should smile more often."   
  
Sotherby does smile a little, but it's not a happy one. He takes Charles' hand, and puts it back in Charles' lap. "Would you like me to call for a doctor, Sire?"  
  
"Why?" Charles asks, confused. "Is he the one we're seeing next?"   
  
"No, Sire, we're not." Sotherby hesitates for a moment. "You've clearly not been feeling well, your Majesty. You stay up late, and you're awake so early, and - are you sleeping well?" The words come out in a rush, and Charles needs a moment to realise what Sotherby said.   
  
"Well?" he repeats, and thinks. "I've been sleeping. Does that count?" He looks up at Sotherby.   
  
"How much, Sire?" Sotherby asks patiently.  
  
Charles frowns, and starts to count on his fingers. "Some hours," he concludes. "Five?" That sounds right. It's usually after midnight that he goes to bed, and the sun starts to rise when he wakes up from a nightmare and waits a few moments to call for Sotherby. "Yes, five."   
  
"I don't think that's enough for you, Sire," Sotherby tells him. "You've been acting a little... peculiar lately."   
  
"I'm a King, I can do what I like!" Charles says. That's the whole point, isn't it? What he does is _normal_. He glares at Sotherby for a moment. "There is nothing wrong."   
  
Sotherby bows. "Of course not, your Majesty," he says quickly. "Time for the Earl of Oxford?"  
  
"Ugh, that old bore?" Charles says, and groans.  
  
"The, er, Earl was a close friend of your father, your Majesty," Sotherby says. "A very loyal Royalist, remember?"  
  
"Loyal Royalist," Charles repeats to himself, and giggles. "Oh yes, Sothers, send him in!"   
  
Sotherby looks at him with a sigh, and calls for the Earl of Oxford to be shown in.

The Earl, Aubrey de Vere, is a perfectly delightful man with no serious issues. Charles sorts them in a few minutes, then talks to the man light-heartedly for a few more, until Sotherby coughs and tell them there're more people waiting.  
  
Charles then asks Aubrey to stay for supper, because he's come this far, and the Earl accepts before departing.   
  
Sotherby smiles at him. "That was good, your Majesty," he says, and sounds surprised.  
  
Charles shrugs. "He's a nice man."  
  
"He is, your Majesty," Sotherby agrees.  
  
*  
  
Supper with Aubrey is simply _wonderful_. The wine keeps flowing long after they're done eating, and they reminisce about the past while toasting to the future. They're not making a lot of sense anymore, and Charles finds himself completely relaxed in the evening for a change. It's _brilliant_.  
  
He sways into his bedroom, and barely manages to get his clothes off before crawling into bed.  
  
His sleep, when it comes, is completely devoid of dreams.   
  
*

He wakes up more refreshed than he has felt in ages, except for the pounding headache.  
  
Sotherby is surprised he's not called in until the late morning, and he eyes the King with some worry.  
  
"I'm fine, Sothers, I'm fine." Charles beams at him. He has _finally_ discovered the solution to the nightmares.   
  
"You don't look fine, Sire," Sotherby tells him.   
  
Charles just rolls his eyes. "Stop worrying and let's get on with ruling the country!"   
  
Sotherby smiles a little at that. "As you wish, your Majesty."  
  
*  
  
From that moment on, not a day goes by that Charles doesn't finish a few bottles of wine before going to bed. He makes Sotherby drink a bit too, because he hates to drink alone and there's not always a convenient drinking buddy available.   
  
"Drink up, Sothers," Charles insists as he pours himself another glass. He can feel the world go round already, just one more glass and he'll have a night of nothing. He's fairly certain Sotherby has only finished one glass, and that's just not on. "Tha's an order!"   
  
Sotherby sips from his glass. "Your Majesty, this is the sixth evening this week that you've been drinking like this."   
  
"And?" Charles asks. He tries to aim a glare at Sotherby, but it's damn hard when the chair keeps spinning like that.  
  
"I was just - wondering if there's a particular reason, Sire," Sotherby asks him.   
  
Charles shrugs. "'s 'cause wine is nice," he replies. He has a brief flash of one of his dreams, of Cromwell leaning over him and smirking down at him, and he shudders. "Very nice." He won't dream of that tonight, he'll be fine.   
  
"If you say so, your Majesty," Sotherby says, but he frowns.   
  
This is not going anywhere, so Charles finishes the glass in one go. "Right! Time to get sleep," he declares. "Night, Sothers."   
  
"Good night, Sire," Sotherby calls after him. "Sleep well."

*

His night is restless, and there's shouting in his chaotic dream. Cromwell is shouting at him, but Charles can't entirely hear it and when he wakes up, he feels terrible.   
  
There's also a horrible stench, and he realises it's vomit.   
  
The servant, who arrives swiftly after Charles calls for one, doesn't comment but quickly removes the pillow and replaces it with a new one. Charles is clutching the sheets while the servant does his work, and it's not until he's alone again that he lets himself feel the horror of what this means.   
  
It means the alcohol isn't working anymore. He'll either need to drink more, and judging by the vomit that _really_ isn't a good idea, or he has to keep drinking and hope that Cromwell isn't strong enough to get through to him entirely.   
  
*  
  
He calls for Sotherby not long after that. The sun is starting to rise again, so he's allowed to. He wouldn't call for Sotherby sooner, as one of them has to be able to get enough sleep, and it's clearly not going to be Charles.   
  
"Your Majesty," Sotherby tells him, with his usual worried expression. "Are you _sure_ you're fine?"   
  
"Yes," Charles whispers. It's a lie, but it has to be true. He has to be fine or he can't rule and then what would happen? He doesn't dare to think about it.  
  
Sotherby walks over to him, next to the chair Charles has been sitting in since he woke up. "Sire?" he asks, reaching out a hand and Charles flinches before Sotherby can touch him. Sotherby pulls his hand back as if he's touched fire. "Shall we -" He swallows for a moment. "Shall we see what needs to be done today?"   
  
Charles only manages to nod.   
  
*  
  
That night, Charles is determined to stay awake. It's the simplest solution, and he doesn't know why he hasn't thought of it sooner. He can't dream if he's not asleep, after all. He's alone, because while he probably could order someone to keep him company, he doesn't want to deal with the questions. Besides, he knows Sotherby would be the one to offer, and he doesn't want to see the pity and the concern. If Sotherby asks one more time whether Charles is fine in that worried, caring voice of his, Charles will break right in front of him. He can't do that, he has to be strong for his country.   
  
He keeps himself preoccupied through the night by reading a book of his favourite poetry, and while he does get tired, the dawn soon rises and he smiles. Yes, this is the best solution.

*

He drinks quite a lot of coffee during the day, and Sotherby eyes him with some worry, but he doesn't ask anything, which Charles is grateful for. He stays awake throughout the second night as well, and somehow manages to survive the second day as well.   
  
On the evening of his third night his reading is disturbed by a sudden knock on the door. "Who is it?" he asks.  
  
"Sotherby, your Majesty. May I come in?"  
  
He's very tempted to say no, but that would only raise more questions. "Enter!"   
  
Sotherby comes in holding a tray. "Sire, I thought you might want some tea." He places the tray with the cup next to Charles on the table.  
  
"Did you read my mind, Sothers?" Charles asks, and smiles. Tea is just what he needs. It's not as refreshing as coffee, but it'll suffice. He takes a sip, and finds that it's lukewarm already. "Unusual flavour..." he muses. "Nice, though."   
  
Sothers smiles with relief. "I hope you like it, your Majesty." He waits for Charles to finish the cup. "It's valerian. It's supposed to help you with your sleep."   
  
Charles stares at him with horror. "No," he mutters. "No, no, Sotherby, I can't go to sleep!"   
  
"You _have_ to, Sire," Sotherby tells him, desperate. "You haven't been sleeping at all the past few nights."   
  
"I have," Charles replies stubbornly. He can feel himself grow more tired already. He has to fight it. "I've slept."  
  
"You haven't," Sotherby says, and he crouches down in front of Charles "Sire, what's going on? You have to tell me, please."   
  
Charles can't look away from Sotherby's pleading eyes, from the concern and worry that's clearly eating away at the man. "Sothers," he says, and he blinks. "Sothers, I - I can't." Can't tell him, can't fell asleep, can't do _anything_.   
  
"You can, your Majesty," Sotherby promises. "Why don't you go to bed and sleep? Please?"   
  
He pushes himself out of the chair, and Sotherby is by his side, very carefully wrapping an arm around him. Charles leans against him as he's led to his bed. "Don't," he mumbles. "Don't let me sleep."   
  
Sotherby slowly lowers him down. "You have to, Sire," he tells him. "I don't know what's wrong, but a good night's sleep will go a long way to fix it." He smiles at Charles, but Charles just shakes his head.  
  
"Won't work," he mumbles. "Won't."  
  
"Good night, your Majesty."   
  
He hears Sotherby leave and close the door, and then the dreams begin.

*

"Hello again, Charles." Cromwell smiles down at him.  
  
Charles, as usual, struggles. And, as usual, he finds that he's been tied down securely. The leather cuts in his flesh, and as he twists his head, he can see that he's - oh God - he's naked.   
  
"Missed me?" Cromwell asks, still smirking.  
  
"Don't," Charles whispers. He can see Cromwell's gloved hand inch towards his groin, can feel the leather over his skin, and it feels _good_. "Don't!"  
  
"How's the ruling going?" Cromwell sneers. "Still useless? Still doing the wrong things? I expected nothing less of you."   
  
Charles groans as Cromwell's gloved hand wraps around his cock. "Just stop."   
  
"As soon as you stop being the worst king this country has ever had," Cromwell says, a cruel twist to his firm grip.   
  
Charles gasps, both at the pain and the pleasure. "Please!" he says. "Don't."   
  
"Leave, Charles. Leave your country, leave your people. They're better off without you," Cromwell whispers as he leans closer. "You know it's true, just admit it." He keeps fisting Charles' cock.   
  
"No," Charles gasps. "I'm not."  
  
"Liar," Cromwell sneers, speeding up. "All that effort to get your throne back when it's _wasted_ on you."   
  
"Don't," Charles pleads. "Don't."  
  
"What's wrong?" Cromwell asks, mock-sweet for a moment. "What's wrong, Charles? What's wrong, _your Majesty?_ "   
  
There're hands on his shoulders now keeping him down. "Stop!"   
  
"What's wrong, your Majesty?"   
  
Suddenly, he finds himself able to move, and he pushes those hands away with all his strength and sits up. He blinks, and realises he's awake. "Oh God," he groans, when he sees Sotherby lying on his carpet.   
  
"Sire?" Sotherby asks. He sits up slowly, and looks at Charles. "What - I'm sorry, your Majesty. I shouldn't have - I'm sorry. I'll leave."   
  
Charles is still panting from the dream, trying to calm himself down while Sotherby gets up and leaves the room. "Sothers," he says weakly.  
  
Sotherby turns around at the door. "I'll leave you to get some sleep, Sire," he says, and bows. He closes the door behind him, and Charles is alone.  
  
He lays down in the bed, wiping at his face with his hand for a moment, and groans. He's managed to push away, quite literally, the last person who's still trying to help him.

*

Everything feels wrong in the morning. Sotherby is quiet, only speaking when he has to or when Charles asks him a direct question. He's tried to talk about what happened, but Sotherby cut him off with a quick, "that's quite all right, your Majesty, we need to talk to the Duke of Somerset now."   
  
There are no more options. Drink doesn't help, and he can't stay awake forever. Even exhaustion doesn't keep Cromwell and his jeering away anymore, and he can feel himself slowly fall apart as the day progresses.  
  
He's never more scared of a night than this one, and he slowly gets ready for it. Cromwell will be waiting, he may as well accept that now. If nightmares and never enough sleep is what he's going to get, he should probably get used to it.  
  
There's a soft knock on the door, and Charles assumes it's some servant asking if there's something he needs before retiring. "Come in," he says.  
  
It's Sotherby, looking hesitant until Charles smiles at him. "Your Majesty..." he trails off, unsure.  
  
"Come in, Sotherby, come in." This is good, Sotherby is good. So long as Sotherby is here, he can't fall asleep as that would be rude. "Sit down." He pats the bed next to him.   
  
Sotherby awkwardly does as he's told. "Sire, about last night, I can't apologise enough, and-"  
  
"I should be the one to apologise, Sothers," Charles says. "I pushed _you_ away, after all."  
  
Sotherby looks down, at his tightly clasped hands. "I shouldn't even have been here," he mutters. "I - I just wanted to see if the tea had helped and it hadn't." He glances at Charles, and is silent for a moment. "What's wrong, Sire?"   
  
He can't tell Sotherby. He can't seem weak in front of anyone, so he just smiles. "Nothing, Sothers. I'm absolutely fine. How have you been?"  
  
"Worried," Sotherby replies. "About - things."   
  
"Tell me." If they talk, he can't fall asleep.   
  
Sotherby looks at him, and then starts talking in great detail about some legal matter. Charles nods, and comments where he can, but he soon finds himself drifting off. He makes himself a bit more comfortable, ordering Sotherby to keep talking, and despite his best intentions, he falls asleep anyway.   
  
*  
  
"Useless man," Cromwell sneers down at him. His hand is on Charles' prick already. "Utterly useless. Why did they bother restoring _you_ to the throne? Why?"   
  
"Stop it, please," Charles asks, desperate. "Why are you doing this?"   
  
"Because you're a terrible person," Cromwell reminds him. "Look at you, pathetic creature."   
  
Charles sobs. "Stop," he whimpers. "Stop."   
  
"I will never stop," Cromwell hisses into his ear. "And you will never stop being a wretched king."   
  
He can't help the sobbing now. "I know!" he shouts. "I know!"   
  
"Sire?"   
  
Charles turns his face, and opens his eyes. He blinks a few times at the light of the candle, then realises Sotherby is still sitting on the bed with him, looking down at him anxiously. "Sothers?"  
  
"Your Majesty, please," Sotherby says, carefully reaching out to put a hand on Charles' shoulder. "Please let me help you."   
  
Charles stares at him for a moment, and he can't stop the tears welling up in his eyes. "I -" he says, taking a shuddering breath. "You can't." And that's when he starts crying in earnest.

He can't stop crying, weeks and months of frustration coming out now, and he can feel Sotherby slowly wrap two arms around him and pull him close. He sobs again, burying his head in Sotherby's shoulder, and Sotherby starts rubbing his back.  
  
"Ssh, it'll be fine, Sire," he whispers. "Calm down."   
  
Charles shakes his head, and the tears still aren't stopping. "It won't be fine," he mutters. "It's never going to be fine again." He wraps his own arms around Sotherby, though, because it's comforting and he needs all the comfort he can get.   
  
"It will," Sotherby assures him. "It will, your Majesty."   
  
The titles just remind him of his failure as a king. "Stop it," he mutters. "Stop calling me 'sire' and 'majesty' and 'king' and - and all of that."   
  
"Sire?"  
  
Charles hits Sotherby in the chest with his fist, but he can't put any strength behind it. "I told you to stop it," he mutters, and lets out another sob. Why is Sotherby being so nice to him? Why is he still rubbing Charles' back? "You should leave." Sotherby should go to a European court, somewhere where his talents can be appreciated and he doesn't have to clean up the mess of the worst king ever.  
  
"Not until you tell me what's wrong," Sotherby says, still rubbing Charles' back.   
  
He's quiet for some time, his breathing is slowly calming down and the tears have stopped flowing. He stays in Sotherby's embrace, as it's nice and Sotherby, for whatever reason, doesn't seem to mind. "I'm a terrible king."   
  
"You're not," Sotherby tells him. The rubbing has stopped, which is too bad, but he's not removing his hands yet.   
  
"I am," Charles sighs. "I'm ruining the country. It's going to be doomed."   
  
"The country is fine, it's getting better," Sotherby assures him. "The people are _happy_."   
  
Charles rests his head on Sotherby's shoulder. "I can't imagine why."   
  
"Because." Sotherby shifts on the bed, to get a bit more comfortable and Charles moves with him, refusing to let him go for even a second. "Because you care. About the country, about the people."   
  
"They deserve someone better," Charles mutters.   
  
Sotherby sighs. "Is this why you can't sleep, Sire? Because you worry half the night?"   
  
If only it were that simple. "No." He hesitates. Can he tell Sotherby what's really been going on? He looks down Sotherby's chest, at the way they're lying close and at his own hands still wrapped around the other man's waist.   
  
Sotherby starts to rub Charles' back again. "Then why?"   
  
Charles closes his eyes, to enjoy the feeling for a moment. If he can't trust Sotherby, who can he trust? "The nightmares."   
  
The rubbing stops. "Nightmares? What - do you want to talk about it?" Sotherby asks.  
  
"Not really," Charles says, shifting to get closer to Sotherby. He feels _safe_ in his own bed for the first time in months. "They're always the same."   
  
"Are they?" Sotherby asks, who has finally gone back to rubbing soothing circles on Charles' back.   
  
Charles nods. "I - it's Cromwell," he says quietly. "He's finally captured me and he's - he's torturing me." It's close enough. "And he's never going to let me go."   
  
Sotherby's arms go tighter around him, and Charles gratefully lets himself be pulled closer. "He's dead, Sire," Sotherby whispers.  
  
"Not at night," Charles replies. He feels something against his hair for a moment, and he blinks. Was that - it couldn't have been Sotherby kissing him. It couldn't have.   
  
"He died once," Sotherby says firmly. "He can die again."

Charles has to laugh at Sotherby's determination. "And you're going to kill him, Sothers? Are you going to be my knight in shining armour?"   
  
"If you like, Sire. It's good to hear you laugh again," Sotherby tells him.   
  
"Mmm, you can save me any time," Charles says, patting him on his chest. He yawns.   
  
"Would you like to sleep, Sire?"   
  
Charles nods against Sotherby's shoulder. "I've been wanting to sleep for months."   
  
"You have to keep trying, you can't give up, your Majesty," Sotherby insists. "That's not like you."   
  
He knows it isn't. "There's nothing I can do."  
  
"You can." Charles feels the same pressure against his head, and he _knows_ it's Sotherby giving him a kiss there. "Go to sleep, Sire."   
  
"But how?" Charles asks, and Sotherby begins to shift away underneath him, letting go of Charles and slipping out of his grasp. "Sothers?"   
  
Sotherby gets up from the bed, his clothes rumpled and his shoulder wet from the tears. "You'll find a way, your Majesty." He smiled down at Charles. "You always do."   
  
Charles shakes his head. Sotherby can't leave. He can't. "Sothers," he says, shifting to sit on the bed on his knees, and he takes hold of Sotherby jacket. "Sothers, you are a _rubbish_ knight." He shifts closer until they're properly face to face.   
  
"I - " Sotherby flushes. "Sire, you need to sleep."   
  
"And I," Charles declares, feeling brave, "need someone to save me." He looks at Sotherby significantly. "And that's you, Sir."  
  
Sotherby swallows at the title, and he glances away from Charles. "I - I." He looks back. "What would you have me do?"   
  
Charles smiles. "There's a good Sir Sothers," he says fondly. "Stay with me." He needs Sotherby to keep him safe.   
  
He flushes again. "Sire, that would be highly inappropriate."   
  
"Any more inappropriate than what you've done so far tonight?" He pulls Sotherby closer by his jacket. "You promised to be my knight in shining armour. Now be true to your word."   
  
Sotherby gulps. "Very well, your Majesty."   
  
"Good," Charles says, and starts to undo the buttons of Sotherby's jacket. "Good man."   
  
"Sire," Sotherby protests, batting Charles' hands away.  
  
"You can't sleep in this jacket, Sotherby," Charles tells him. "You'll be more comfortable in your shirt. And those breeches will have to go as well." He's feeling almost giddy, and he has to laugh again.   
  
"Your Majesty..."   
  
Charles looks at him. "You know I'm right."  
  
Sotherby sighs. "You are, Sire." He removes his jacket and another ornate shirt before he's in his plain linen one, and then makes swift work of his boots and breeches.   
  
Charles makes himself comfortable and pulls the blankets aside for Sotherby. "Get in," he says. He's nervous and worried, because what if he still has the nightmares? As soon as Sotherby lays down and seems comfortable, Charles shifts to put his head on Sotherby's shoulder again, and sighs contently when he feels a pair of arms around him. "Much better," he says, and puts one arm around Sotherby's waist. It's weird to be this close to him, but not nearly as weird as it should be. He closes his eyes, and smiles.   
  
"Are you all right, Sire?" Sotherby asks, sounding nervous.  
  
"Yes, Sothers," Charles replies, shifting his head a little to hear Sotherby's heartbeat, and to feel the man's reassuring warmth through the thin layers of clothing. "I am." He actually feels safe.   
  
Sotherby presses a kiss against his hair. "Good night, Sire," he whispers.  
  
"Night, Sothers." Charles falls asleep without fear only a few seconds later.

*

He wakes up the next morning, feeling better than he's felt in a long time. The sunlight is bright in his room, and he guesses it must be close to noon. He's also still hugging Sotherby, who has one arm around him. Charles can see from the corner of his eye that the other hand is holding a book, and he smiles to himself. Sotherby must've been awake for hours, but unable to move. "Morning, Sothers."   
  
Sotherby drops the book in surprise. "Sire! You're awake."   
  
"I am," Charles says, and he rolls off Sotherby to rub at his neck. He beams at the other man. "I've slept very well."  
  
Sotherby smiles back at him, clearly relieved. "Excellent, Sire. I'll leave and you can call for a servant, and we can finally start our day."  
  
"Shouldn't you have got started on that already?" he asks, frowning a little. "It must be noon by now."   
  
"Ah, yes." Sotherby carefully puts the book back on Charles' bedside table. "I, er, tried to leave earlier this morning, your Majesty, but... you seemed highly, er, opposed to that idea."   
  
Now that he thinks about it, he does vaguely remember something moving underneath and him clutching tightly at it with his hands. It must've been Sotherby, and he feels slightly guilty for making the man stay. "Then you'd be best be off, Sothers. Lots to catch up on while I get dressed," Charles told him.  
  
Sotherby regarded him, still faintly blushing. "You're fine, Sire?"   
  
Charles smiles at him. "Most peaceful sleep I've had in months. Thanks."  
  
"I - it's - no problem," Sotherby stammers, and gets out of bed to gather his clothes.   
  
Charles lays back, enjoying the feeling of _contentment_ instead of anxiety after waking. "Hm. Same again tonight?"   
  
"Sire?"   
  
He opens his eyes. "I'm not going back to having nightmares." Not now that he knows what it's like to sleep normally again.   
  
Sotherby sighs. "No, no, of course you don't," he replies. "But Sire, I - we - it's inappropriate!"   
  
" _Again_ with the inappropriateness," Charles grumbles. He's finally got some decent sleep and now Sotherby is _ruining_ it by being _sensible_. He sits up in bed. It's amazing how much clearer he can think now. Definitely something he's missed. "Look, Sothers, your rooms aren't that far from mine. All we have to do is wait for the servants to be done asking me if I need anything before I go to bed." He's starting to grin. Oh, plotting, he has missed _that_. "And then you can sneak into my room and sleep here, and then sneak back the next morning!" He beams at Sotherby, who doesn't look nearly as enthusiastic.  
  
"They're going to find out," he says, as he puts his breeches on. "They are."

Charles doesn't care. He's found a way to sleep properly, the rest of the world can go hang.

The rest of the court seem surprised by his sudden bout of cheerfulness. Oh, they try to hide it, of course they do, but Charles notices the widened eyes and the whispers once his back is turned.   
  
*  
  
"Sire?"   
  
"Hm?" Charles asks. He's just had to sort a dispute between two nobles, and is very relieved he's got the clear head he needs for it. "What is it?"  
  
Sotherby looks uncomfortable. "You _do_ remember I leave tomorrow morning, right? For my sister's wedding?"  
  
Charles stares up at him. "You're what?"   
  
"I asked you last month, and you said it was fine," Sotherby quickly tells him. "That I should arrange for someone else to replace me, and that I can't come back until I had a hangover the size of France."   
  
"I said that?" Admittedly, it sounds like him, but Charles can't recall it.  
  
Sotherby nods. "You did, your Majesty. I've made arrangements, Johnson will take over me for in court, he's the one with the grey wig, Sire."   
  
"The one who juggles apples at parties to impress the ladies?" Charles asks. He's always wanted to learn how to do it, as most of the ladies seem duly impressed by it.   
  
"Yes, Sire, that's Johnson," Sotherby says. "He's also one of our royal librarians and archive keepers. Very organised man."  
  
Well, that explains why Charles hadn't seen him in his job. "Ugh, he'd better not expect me to organise my paperwork."   
  
"I'm sure he'll do that for you, Sire. So, it's agreed, then? I can leave for a few days?"   
  
"Few days?" Charles asks, a feeling of anxiety blossoming in his stomach. "How many?"  
  
"Two, perhaps three days," Sotherby explains. "What with the travel, your Majesty. Johnson is a very capable man, I promise you."  
  
It's not Johnson he's worried about. "Sotherby," he says quietly. "We will discuss how long you'll be gone for later."   
  
Because he's not going to have the nightmares again.  
  
*  
  
'Later' turns into that evening, when Charles is lying in bed and waiting for Sotherby to stop dithering about by the side of the bed. "Sothers," he says, a little bit of a warning in his voice.  
  
Sotherby slides in next to him, and Charles immediately cuddles up to him. "Sire, can I please get comfortable first?"   
  
"If you insist," Charles says, and waits a few moments before snuggling up to him again. "Now, about you leaving..."  
  
"I'll be back, your Majesty," Sotherby tells him. He has an arm wrapped around Charles already, giving him a small pat.   
  
Charles nods. "Two nights," he says. He can probably handle two nights of not sleeping if he has a good night now. "But no more." He pokes Sotherby in the chest for emphasis. "Or I'm sending someone to get you."   
  
Sotherby laughs. "Of course, Sire."  
  
He doesn't tell Sotherby that he means it. He's only had one decent night's sleep, and he's terrified of going back.   
  
"Your Majesty? Will you promise me something?" Sotherby asks eventually.  
  
"What?"   
  
"Will you - can you at least _try_ to get some sleep?"   
  
Charles groans. The man is a mind reader; it's terribly annoying. " _Sothers_!"   
  
"I'm only saying, if I return and I find that you've been staying up all night again, I'll - I'll..."  
  
"What?" Charles asks, momentarily too amused at the _thought_ of Sotherby threatening him with anything.  
  
"I'll not let you have a party for a month."   
  
Charles sucks in his breath. "You're a cruel man, Sotherby."  
  
"Yes, Sire."   
  
He considers it. Sotherby only asked him to _try_ , and he can do that. Maybe if he sleeps for one night, he can stay up for the other. "Very well."   
  
"I'm sure it'll be fine, your Majesty," Sotherby tells him. "Often, nightmares are just vicious cycles where one bad night of sleep just makes the next one worse, and so on, and now you've broken the cycle, so-"  
  
"Sothers," Charles says, and he yawns. "Good night."  
  
"Good night, Sire."

*

The next morning it's far too early when Sotherby wakes him to get out of bed. "Hmmppffg," he manages, when Sotherby tells him he's leaving.  
  
"You'll be fine, Sire," Sotherby assures him.  
  
Charles glares at him, but Sotherby just smiles. "'s early."   
  
"It's a long trip. Try to get some more sleep, your Majesty. I'll have a servant wake you in a few hours." And with that, Sotherby leaves him alone.  
  
He buries his head in the pillow, hugging it like he did with Sotherby. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he's not alone, and that he's still safe.   
  
*  
  
In his dream, he's trying to find one of his favourite hats, but no one has seen it. Some of the servants tell him he's wearing it, which is blatantly not true, and in one of the rooms he finds Cromwell wearing it in front of a mirror.   
  
"Charles," Cromwell says, turning to smirk at him.  
  
Fear freezes him for a moment, but then instinct takes over and he runs away.  
  
*  
  
While Johnson fills him in on today's schedule, Charles ponders the dream. On the bright side, he was able to leave. On the downside, Cromwell is back and he had Charles' _hat_. Does he dare to sleep tonight?  
  
"You juggle, don't you?" Charles asks, to distract himself.  
  
Johnson blinks a few times. "Uhm, yes, your Majesty."  
  
Charles smiles. "Teach me?"   
  
Johnson then rifles through his paper. "I've been given instructions on that," he mutters, when he finds a particular sheet. "Ah, yes. Er, have you read through the latest financial reports, Sire?"   
  
"No," Charles replies with a sigh.   
  
"Then I'm afraid I can't teach you how to juggle," Johnson replies, smiling apologetically.   
  
Typical Sotherby, still running Charles' life even when he's not here.  
  
*

He reads the report late at night, and more than once he's tempted to just throw it in the fireplace and say one of the dogs did it, but then he thinks of how annoyed and disappointed Sotherby would be, and how he would struggle not to show it, and Charles decides against it. Besides, he _is_ the king, and it's his duty to read horrifically boring things and make sense of them.   
  
Cromwell's whispers of how he's a terrible king and will ruin the country come back to him, and he tries to ignore them by focusing on the finances.   
  
*  
  
Eventually, he's done with that. It's late in the evening, and he's exhausted, still not entirely caught up on all the sleep he's missed in the past months.   
  
But there's no Sotherby, and Charles is worried. He can't pretend one of his pillows is Sotherby, the servants have changed them earlier today.  
  
Then he thinks that maybe they haven't changed Sotherby's yet, as he's away. And there won't be any servants around, so he _could_ easily sneak into Sotherby's room, steal a pillow, and come back.  
  
He slips out of bed, feeling a little bit like when he was younger and used to get out of bed to visit the kitchens. As he sneaks down the hall, he has to bite his lip to keep from giggling to himself.   
  
Opening Sotherby's door carefully, he steps in. He hasn't been in here much at all, and he suspects that Sotherby hasn't been either. The room is sparsely decorated, with very few personal touches besides a pile of books on the desk.   
  
It feels intrusive, though, being here, so Charles suppresses the urge to start snooping through desk drawers. Instead, he grabs a pillow off the bed, and hugs it to his chest. It's not nearly the same as Sotherby, how could it be, but he hopes it's enough to fool his mind.

*

In his dream, he's having a marvellous party. All his friends and family are there, and Charles couldn't be happier. Cousin Rupert just handed him a glass of wine. "Drink up, Charlie," Rupert says, and they toast.  
  
"To partying," Charles says, taking a sip.  
  
"To our king," Rupert replies, and he grins.   
  
"Yes, to our king," a quiet voice behind Charles says.  
  
Charles turns around to find the party is over. The people have left, the music has stopped, and he's alone in a massive ballroom with Oliver Cromwell.   
  
"You drink and eat and drink and eat," Cromwell tells him, walking towards him as Charles backs away.   
  
"It's a party," Charles replies, and fear settles in his stomach.  
  
Cromwell backs him up against a wall. "Nothing but parties for you," he sneers.  
  
Charles looks around, and they're in the same cell as always. "No, please."  
  
Cromwell just smirks down at him as he pushes his body against Charles, forcing him against the cold stone wall. "Begging is the only thing you're good at, isn't it?" he whispers in Charles' ear.   
  
Charles shakes his head, and starts to push Cromwell away. "Just leave me alone!"   
  
Cromwell laughs, taking Charles' wrists and pressing them against the wall with seemingly no effort at all. "I will never leave you, your Majesty."   
  
*  
  
Charles wakes up with a gasp, still clutching Sotherby's pillow. His heart is racing, and he wills himself to calm down. It wasn't as bad as the other dreams, not nearly as bad, but the anxiety that has been slowly fading is back in full force.   
  
He can't go to sleep again.

*

The next day, Johnson is surprised to find that Charles has read the entire report, and the man even asks a few questions to check. He's going to have a word with Sotherby about that when he gets back tomorrow.   
  
Tonight isn't going to be good, it'll either be a sleepless one or one with a nightmare, and Charles can't wait for Sotherby to just get back to him. Until then, he has ways of distracting himself.  
  
He smiles at Johnson. "I take it this means you're now allowed to teach me how to juggle?"  
  
Johnson smiles back. "If we can still take care of state business, your Majesty."  
  
"Yes, yes, of course. Now show me how to juggle."  
  
*  
  
The juggling is an _excellent_ way of keeping himself awake. He could read another report, but they're so boring he would most definitely nod off in the middle of one.  
  
It does become more difficult to concentrate as the hours go by, though, and eventually, Charles decides to give it up for the night. He eyes his bed. Sotherby said that he shouldn't give on sleep, and the man's right, Charles isn't a coward. He has already dealt with Cromwell once, after all.  
  
He falls asleep, more than a little worried despite his little motivational speech.  
  
*  
  
His worries are right.  
  
The situation would be boring if it didn't completely terrify him. He's tied up, completely restrained and _naked_ , and Cromwell is sitting on top of him with a particularly smug grin.   
  
"Charlie, my boy," he says, stroking Charles' chest with his gloves hand.   
  
"Go away, Cromwell," Charles replies. He can fight his own fears. "You've lost."   
  
Cromwell just smirks, and keeps stroking him. Despite himself, Charles can feel his body start to react. It's been _far_ too long. "You haven't won either, Charles. The country definitely hasn't."  
  
"The country is doing fine," Charles tells him, and he can ignore Cromwell's caresses. He can.   
  
"Is it? You don't even know, do you? You just don't _care_ ," Cromwell hisses at him. "Can't even bring yourself to read a few reports. What must people think?"  
  
"That - that I'm a good king," Charles tries, and watches as Cromwell shifts to sit at Charles' side, and wraps his hand around Charles' half-hard cock. "Don't!"   
  
"Do they?" Cromwell muses, moving his hand up and down slowly but persistently, and in a way that's worryingly pleasant. "Do they _really_?"   
  
Charles moans despite himself. "Yes."  
  
"You think you're loved?" Cromwell laughs, and his hand twists cruelly and yet _deliciously_.  
  
It really has been too long for Charles. "Ye-es!"   
  
"And yet people keep leaving you," Cromwell says. "Sotherby has left you."   
  
Anger flares inside of Charles. "Don't talk about him." How dare Cromwell bring him up?  
  
Cromwell just laughs again, and keeps moving his hand. "Oh, whyever not? He's left, hasn't he? No surprise he's fed up with you not _caring_."   
  
"Not true," Charles whimpers. "He's - he's coming back!"  
  
"Hopefully," Cromwell replied, quickening his pace and tightening his grip.  
  
*  
  
Charles wakes up with a start, and groans at the mess he's made. Why does Cromwell keep torturing him like that? But as horrible as Cromwell doing those things to him is, it's not nearly as horrible as the thought that Sotherby might think he's an uncaring king.  
  
He tries to tell himself that Sotherby doesn't, as Sotherby had been the one to reassure he was a fine and caring king, but, well, there've also been plenty of moments where Sotherby is clearly annoyed and struggling to stop himself from getting properly angry, which has always amused Charles.  
  
It's not nearly as funny now.   
  
He wipes at his face in frustration. Sotherby'll be back tomorrow, they can go back to normal, and things will be _fine_.

*

He keeps telling himself that throughout the day. Sotherby will be back. Things will be fine.  
  
It's not until late in the evening that Sotherby actually returns. And he doesn't even have the common decency to tell Charles himself, it's a servant who brings him the news, as Charles insisted to be notified of Sotherby's arrival.  
  
Charles marches over to Sotherby's room once the servant left, and he walks in without even knocking.  
  
Sotherby turns around from sorting out his desk, and he looks surprised. "Your Majesty," he says, and bows briefly.   
  
Charles grins, and rushes over to hug Sotherby. “How was the wedding?” He buries his face in Sotherby’s jacket, immensely relieved the man is back.   
  
“It was good, Sire. Not as wild a party as you might've liked, but very pleasant.” He hesitates before wrapping one arm around Charles. “How were things here? With, er, with Johnson?”  
  
“He's a good sort of chap,” Charles replies, and lets go of Sotherby. “The right choice. Excellent juggling teacher too.”   
  
Sotherby frowns. “He taught you that?”  
  
“A bit. _After_ I read the financial report.” He smiles.   
  
They just look at each other for a moment. “Good, good,” Sotherby steps away to look at some papers on his desk again. “And how’ve you been sleeping, Sire?”

Charles sighs. Of course he's going to ask about that. “Sleep hasn't really... happened.” He feels absurdly guilty suddenly, like he's let Sotherby down.   
  
“Right.” Sotherby says, still looking at his desk. “Right.” He meets Charles' eyes. “So, er, you need my help?”   
  
“Yes,” he says quietly. “Please?”   
  
Sotherby sighs. “Sire, we can’t do this every time,” he mutters. “It’s impossible.”   
  
Charles reaches out to take Sotherby’s hand. “Please? You know what I’m like if I don’t sleep properly.” He takes a step back, dragging Sotherby with him.  
  
He rolls his eyes, but lets Charles lead him out the door. “I think we _all_ know that.”  
  
“Well, then, it’s doing a service for the kingdom, Sothers,” Charles tells him, leading him down the hallway. “It’d practically be _treason_ if you didn’t.”   
  
Sotherby still doesn’t look too convinced. “I just wish we knew where your nightmares are coming from,” he mutters.   
  
“I just wish they’d _stop_!” Charles replies. He pulls aside the bedcovers and clambers in. “There’s got to be a cure for nightmares.”  
  
Sotherby gets in next to him, waiting patiently for Charles to make himself comfortable plastered against him. “I’ll look into it, Sire.”  
  
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Sothers,” Charles tells him, and smiles. “You’re the best advisor ever.”  
  
He can feel Sotherby stroke his hair, and Charles lets out a pleased noise. It’s so _nice_. “Yes, Sire, best advisor ever.”  
  
Sotherby sounds a little sad. “I shall have to have a mug made for you,” Charles decides, patting Sotherby on his chest. “So that everyone else knows it too.”   
  
“Thanks, your Majesty.”   
  
Charles smiles to himself when he falls asleep. He’ll have to talk to someone in the morning to have it arranged.

*

Waking up refreshed is simply the most amazing thing ever, Charles thinks. He even lets Sotherby slide out of bed early so the man can catch up on his paperwork. “I’ll be right out,” Charles mutters, and he snuggles deeper into the pillow Sotherby has vacated.   
  
“Of course, Sire,” Sotherby replies, amused. “I will see you in a few hours.”  
  
“Mmhmm,” Charles says, already asleep again.  
  
*  
  
That afternoon, Sotherby brings him to the Royal Archives. “Why are we going here?” Charles complains. “If it’s more reports, Sotherby, I won’t be pleased.”  
  
“No, no, it’s about your nightmares, your Majesty,” Sotherby explains quietly. They are shown to an office, where several folders are lying on a desk. “I thought a little… information might help.”  
  
Charles raises an eyebrow at him. Sotherby doesn’t even know the full extent of his nightmares, how is this going to help? “What’s in those folders?”   
  
Sotherby closes the door behind him. “Pamphlets, newspapers, all sorts of things. They’re all responses to Cromwell’s reign, Sire.”  
  
Charles pulls his hand back from the folder as if it were a vicious animal. “And _why_ would you show me this?”  
  
Sotherby pushes him to sit down on the chair, and opens the folder. “Well, you said you had nightmares about Cromwell telling you you’re useless, I thought I would show what people thought of him.”  
  
Well, a round of Cromwell-mocking might help to make him feel better, so Charles does read some of the writing and pamphlets. There are some truly staggering things in here, ranging from anger and despair to witty essays satirising Cromwell and his Puritans. He laughs at one caricature for a few minutes, until Sotherby takes it from him. “You always know how to cheer me up!” He wipes the tears from his eyes.  
  
Sotherby smiles at him, and takes another folder. “And these are what people have written so far about your reign, Sire.”  
  
“I – really?” Charles asks. He’s not so sure about reading these. He knows about a few things, obviously, but for most of the part he tries to ignore it.  
  
“Yes,” Sotherby tells him firmly, and gives him some pamphlets.   
  
He steels himself for the worst, and some of it is bad, but for the most part… for the most part people are positive about him, even if they think he’s become too European, or is too frivolous, they all agree he’s better than Cromwell. It’s heartening, in a way, to see that while they _do_ mock him, they do it in a far gentler way than Cromwell. There’s none of the viciousness, and Charles gets the feeling they’re laughing with him, not at him. And, well, he is the King. Mockery is part of the job. When he’s done reading, he pushes his chair back, and stands up.  
  
“Sire?” Sotherby asks, looking just a little anxious.  
  
“Thank you.” Charles wraps his arms around the other man and hugs him.   
  
Sotherby hugs him back carefully. “I just – it seemed you needed to know you were loved, Sire. By the people.”   
  
Charles smiles into Sotherby’s jacket. “Just the people, Sothers?” Sotherby remains silent for an uncomfortably long time, and Charles pulls back. “Is something wrong?”   
  
Sotherby quickly shakes his head. “No, no, of course not.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “So, er, if you’ve done enough reading, shall we get back to the throne room? We have other things to do today.”  
  
Charles frowns. Something is definitely going on with Sotherby. “Very well.”

*

“I think you should try on your own again, your Majesty,” Sotherby tells him that evening.  
  
“What? Why?” Charles complains.   
  
Sotherby moves to stand on the side of the table, folding his hands behind back. “You need to keep trying, Sire.”  
  
“I don’t _want_ to.” He folds his arms and sulks. He’s acting like a child, and he _knows_ Sotherby is right and that he’s not a useless king, but still. He wants his Sotherby. “Just get in bed with me!”   
  
“I’m not sure if that’s wise, Sire,” Sotherby mutters, looking down at the table. “I’d really rather not.”   
  
“Fine,” Charles huffs. “If the thought of sharing a bed with me is so – so _repulsive_ , go back to your own room. I’ll be fine here.”   
  
Sotherby winces. “Sire, it’s not like that…”  
  
“Just go, Sotherby,” Charles grumbles, and gets under his bedcovers.   
  
“If you have a nightmare…”   
  
“Just go.” He hears Sotherby close the door behind him, and Charles rolls to lie on his back. Why is Sotherby being so difficult? He’s not asking the impossible from the man, just to share his bed so he can sleep, and from the looks of it, Sotherby’s sleep isn’t disturbed by it. What on Earth is the man’s problem? He turns to lie on his side again. Has he done something to anger Sotherby? It can’t be, he’s told the man often enough how good he is at his job, what more does he want?  
  
*  
  
Cromwell is there, of course. “The people didn’t care for you.” Charles tells him.  
  
Cromwell looks unimpressed. “I didn’t need them to love me,” he replies.  
  
He’s bound to the table again, but it’s less scary than it used to be, even if Cromwell is already touching him again. “You keep telling yourself that.”  
  
“You need everyone to love you,” Cromwell tells him. “Everyone.”  
  
“Nothing wrong with that,” Charles replies, trying to ignore the touches as well as he can.   
  
“And yet they don’t,” Cromwell murmurs. “Sotherby still thinks you’re an idiot who needs help with everything.”  
  
“Doesn’t.” Why is Cromwell able to always find the most sensitive spots on his body? He can’t help but arch into the touch.  
  
“Does. He’s probably trying to find some other means of employment. Someone who’ll appreciate him, someone whose messes he doesn’t always need to clean up after.”   
  
Charles groans as Cromwell continues to tease him. “It’s not like that.”   
  
“He’ll get fed up and leave you soon enough.” Cromwell smirks down at him. “Just wait.”  
  
*  
  
Charles wakes up with a start, and he’s out of his bed and halfway down the corridor before he realises what he’s doing. It really isn’t _fair_ to Sotherby to wake him up, but Charles needs to know.  
  
“Sotherby!” he whispers loudly as he walks into Sotherby’s bedroom. “Are you awake?”   
  
He can hear Sotherby shift in his bed, and he walks closer.  
  
“Sothers!”   
  
Sotherby wakes up with a flail, and Charles has to stand back to avoid his arms. “I – what?” He blinks. “Your Majesty?”   
  
“You’re not leaving me, are you?” Charles asks quickly, sitting on his bed. He fiddles with Sotherby’s bedcovers.   
  
Sotherby stares at him. “Is this because you told me to leave?”   
  
Charles nods. “And then Cromwell said-“  
  
“Another nightmare? About me leaving?” Sotherby asks, completely stunned. “Why?”  
  
“I don’t know!” Charles exclaims. “Just tell me you’re not leaving me?” He looks at Sotherby with his saddest eyes.  
  
Sotherby sighs. “I’m not leaving you, your Majesty. Will that be all?”   
  
“Thank you, Sothers.” Charles pulls his bedcovers aside, and starts to slide in.  
  
“What are you doing!?” Sotherby yelps.  
  
Charles looks at him. “Going to sleep?”  
  
Sotherby looks like a frightened rabbit. “In my bed?”  
  
“Yes,” Charles says, and he pushes Sotherby to lie on his back, and lies down on his chest, where he is reminded of an unfortunate side-effect to his Cromwell nightmares. “Uhm.”  
  
“Is that…”  
  
“Ignore it, please, Sotherby,” Charles says. The embarrassment will ensure his half-hardness will be gone soon.   
  
Sotherby pushes him away. “I can’t do this anymore,” he mutters. “I really can’t.” He sits up in the bed. “I’m sorry.”

“What is it?” Charles asks.  
  
“This is a nightmare,” Sotherby tells himself. “It has to be.”  
  
“Steady on, why is this a nightmare?” Charles thinks that’s a bit much to call this situation. “I’m not that horrible.”   
  
Sotherby looks at him. “No, you really aren’t.”   
  
Charles beams at him. “So, there’s no problem, and we can just sleep together, and-“   
  
“I don’t want to _just sleep_!” Sotherby suddenly exclaims, then looks like a frightened rabbit again.   
  
“So what do you – oh.” Well, a lot of things make sense now, and Charles smiles. “Sotherby, you should’ve said.”   
  
Sotherby has buried his head in his hands. “Please ignore it, Sire.”   
  
“I’m afraid I can’t, Sotherby,” Charles says, and pulls Sotherby’s hand away to kiss his cheek. “My advisor’s happiness is _very_ important to me. “ Sotherby really could’ve let him known about this sooner. It would’ve made their little sleepovers so much more enjoyable.   
  
Sotherby looks at him, still scared. “Sire?”  
  
“Honestly, Sothers, you could’ve said something,” Charles tells him.   
  
“Like what?” Sotherby snaps. “I’m sorry, Sire, I can’t sleep with you, I’d rather do other things to you in your bed that require you being awake?”   
  
Charles just grins. “It would’ve been a _start_ ,” he says. He kisses Sotherby’s cheek again. “Is this why you were so reluctant to share my bed?”   
  
“Yes,” Sotherby murmurs.   
  
“And there’s no need for that now, is there?” Charles says, leaning in to briefly kiss him on the mouth.   
  
Sotherby kisses him back. “Apparently not, Sire.”  
  
“Good.” Charles smiles. “Now that that’s settled, I demand you tell me more about those things you’d rather be doing in this bed. Or, even better, show me.”   
  
*  
  
The night is exactly what Charles needs, and, he suspects, what Sotherby needs as well. Sotherby doesn’t even jump out of bed in the early morning, he stays with Charles when he wakes up and they lazily kiss for a moment.   
  
“But we still can’t do this every night,” Sotherby says, eventually.  
  
“Spoilsport,” Charles huffs. “ But you’re right. I suppose I can try again tonight.”  
  
“You’re free to come to me if you have a nightmare, Sire,” Sotherby tells him. “Or if you don’t.”   
  
Charles grins, and kisses his chest. “You can be sure I will.”  
  
*  
  
He’s anxious that evening, obviously, but for the first time in months, there’s absolutely no need for it. He sleeps through the night solidly, with dreams that make delightfully little sense and are blissfully free of Cromwell.   
  
“And?” Sotherby asks him the next morning.  
  
“I slept very well, Sir Sothers,” Charles tells him, and Sotherby ducks his head at the reference to the first night they shared a bed. “I do believe you’ve successfully beaten the dragon.”   
  
“And with an excellent reward too,” Sotherby says, and Charles laughs at him.   
  
“You could have treasures, you know,” Charles tells him.  
  
Sotherby snorts. “I think the one I have is going to be work enough.”  
  
Charles grins. “You know me so well, Sothers.”


End file.
